


Gegants

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bitter Samgirl Club Secret Santa, Catalan, Christmas, Gen, POV Outsider, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2954939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For roguishfeathers, who said: "Well, I like the thing when in outsider's POV we get reminded our sweetest bby Sam is both a sympathetic guy who comforts witnesses and doesn't let harass a waitress, and a gigantic dude trained to be a killer (who used to have psychic powers) you wouldn't want to mess with~ I prefer fics set in later seasons. I like angst a lot but only include it if you like it too :D Thank you!"</p><p>Second person POV. Includes Carlos, who was mentioned in 9x17 as a contact of Sam's who knows something about demons.</p><p>Apologies for anything related to the Catalan language or any Catalan customs that I screwed up. If anyone has a correction, please let me know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gegants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



The first time you meet him, he's framed in the casually-opened door like a movie still from something sinister, his silent eyes flashing as they scan the living room like it's important he know its secrets already, which is presumptuous. There's no pretense of nicety and no polite smile, which would probably rankle more if you didn't already have your hand on the flask in your pocket.

You smile like you're harmless, figuring one of the two of you probably should, and already knowing it won't be him. He stalks inside, tall and full of imposition, and though he only glances at you for half a second, you freeze, momentarily forgetting that he's not the first of his kind you've faced, not by a long shot. He's good; he's gotta be. He's probably dangerous. 

He passes you by, near enough to push air past you with his movement, but not close enough to make physical contact. Carlos is on the porch alone now, unruffled, unbothered. You don't move, you barely even breathe until he makes to come inside. Meanwhile, Carlos's latest find heads through the room like that's acceptable behavior. He has a grace he tries to spread out to encase the danger and power he's already shown and hide it from sight. He's in the kitchen.

"Carlos, you can't just bring one in here," you whisper, quiet and in your native tongue. "Not like this."

"I apologize. But, Sam needs our help," Carlos says. Carlos believes his job, which is fast food by day and exorcism by night when it isn't exorcism by day and fast food by night, is never done. 

In fifteen years of cooking for Carlos and manning the holy water, the two of you had never let a demon eat at the dinner table, but apparently there's a first time for everything. 

But if it so much as criticizes your cooking....

The vessel's deceptively shorter-looking when sitting at the well-used table under the embroidered tablecloth, more lost and more hollow than you'd thought, all hair and cheekbones behind calculating expressions. He appears capable of a lot of damage despite the weariness, despite the thinness, even for a human, though. And he appears to have nothing else to lose.

Carlos doesn't seem afraid, of the thing's strength, of his force of personality, but he does seem concerned. "We'll figure something out," he says. Carlos doesn't appear to be hiding anything from you on purpose; he will tell you if you ask.

"Figure what out?"

"Sam" stares for too long at the black flowers on the cloth. "I'm trying to locate a demon," he says. "Demon" is too familiar in his mouth. The words are spoken almost absently. There's a shadowed goal threading the thought together, though. He appears to have something to gain, something you're not sure he should get if that's the tone of his thought thread.

"He needs to find his brother," Carlos says. "We'll help."

You save vessels, and you're good at it. You're a team together who sends demons to Hell when you've got the free time. But you don't look for the black puffs of smoke described on the cartons of whatever demons drink. You're not here to serve them. 

Speaking of serving them, you go to pour the wine, a little begrudgingly. "We hunt demons, Sam. That is all we do. We don't throw them family reunions." 

His hand stops yours, the touch soft, until he's lifting the bottle slightly, the contact remaining for a moment. Your skin crawls because your mind knows better than to accept that gentleness at face value.

"My brother is _not_ a demon," he says. His entire face is dedicated to getting you to believe that. He looks like he'd say it again, and again, or explain anything you wanted to ask, but according to his agenda.

You stare at his hand on yours, cause it's still there. Slowly, he does too, which has his grip loosening and sliding away like the exhaling of a breath. The tension in the rest of him eases too, a strangely disconcerting ripple effect, until he's slumping down, shrinking down in the seat, the air going out of him. His eyes growing empty again. It's like he's just a vessel, like somehow he smoked out and you didn't notice. Is he gone?

Carlos sighs. "Montserrat—"

You shush him, watching the man, who shifts his shoulders after a moment, then looks up, meeting your gaze with a far-off one. 

"Well, then is he a vampire?" you ask. Perhaps Carlos is branching out from demons and somehow neglected to mention it. He follows wherever the Lord leads him, and mostly you just try to keep up on that front. 

"Is he a...?" Sam's annoyed. Quiet, still, his lip curled and his eyes like incredulous slits. "The word you're looking for is 'corpse'. He's a corpse." 

"The demon we want isn't the _brother_ , Montse," Carlos explains, patient. 

You take another look at Sam. What is he trying to do with a demon, make a deal with it? Find an old business partner, take out his revenge on the demon that killed his brother? And how long has the brother been dead, anyway, years? Centuries? It takes a while to become a demon. 

"He owes Sam," Carlos explains, "but he won't come when Sam summons."

"You need our help summoning, finding info," you say. Well, what can't he do on his own? Is it just the summoning? "Are your powers very advanced?"

"My...powers?" Sam glances from you to Carlos and back, needing elaboration before he can try to answer.

"Hold on. This is my Winchester," Carlos explains carefully. "The one from the case with the soul-snatching nun, yeah? The one I met with in Denver."

You know exactly who he's referring to, but you're still confused. Carlos had called him kind, respectful. He's been neither. And if he's a demon, even one Carlos knows, that's still extremely poor judgment. Carlos is supposed to do safe, good things, or at least things that make sense. Working with a demon alone does not fit the bill.

Sam stares down into the wine, contemplating taking another sip. He's avoiding your gaze as he does. Taking the chance to surprise him, you slip the flask out of your pocket and open it, splashing Sam lightly but expertly across the face. You wait for the hiss, the burning sound and the way holy water reacts when splashed on demon skin.

The only thing that happens is that the sweet-and-sourest, most childlike in its incredulity expression falls over his face. "Really?" 

A demon strong enough to be unaffected by holy water would not have been brought in like Sam had been brought in, if Carlos had had any say. "Ah. He's not a demon," you state a bit dumbly. You stand and watch holy water drip along his face and hair and the collar of his shirt. 

"Not a demon," Carlos agrees, very seriously. Too seriously. You glance at him, and his eyes are starting to show signs of amusement. You sigh.

You splash Carlos a little too. He's even more amused, about to smirk. You close the flask and pocket it again. It's definitely Carlos.

Sam accepts the napkin Carlos offers. "Thanks. Yeah, human, mostly. Actually...I get connected with Hell a lot. Too much."

You turn to the stove. You spoon the mussels out onto a plate. "Eat some mussels," you urge, catching his gaze, which is far away again. "Stay here for tonight." His eyes soften. He sits up a little straighter, but he's hesitant, maybe even a little sheepish. 

"We'll need your help summoning, Montse. After dinner." 

"If we can just track him down," Sam says, voice ringing with some focus behind the sheepishness, "I'll talk to him. I'll make him bring my brother back. No soul selling, just pure repayment of debt."

The fire in his eyes is interesting now. He would go to extraordinary lengths for his brother, you imagine. You glance at cousin Carlos and wonder how you would look to an outsider if you were trying to save him by finding a demon who owed you a favor that large.

"I'll help," you agree simply.

Sam sighs in relief.

***

Your time working together as a team had allowed you primarily to see his skill with translations, tracking, weaponry, interrogation, and strategy. Things hadn't gotten very personal. He said he enjoyed the visit as he left, and you never had any reason to doubt that.  He even sent Carlos a few texts with tips after "handling a big demon situation" that he wouldn't elaborate on. You prayed for him a lot. He said he prayed for the two of you too.

You don't understand why of all places Sam Winchester and his undead brother would want to come over and join you for Christmas. But then, hunters are known to be a lonely bunch. You remember Sam saying Dean was all he'd really had left, and that probably hadn't changed since he'd found him.

The air is dampened by reality when they arrive. Sam was terrifying on his first visit, but despite your fear, Sam had not been a ticking timebomb the way you know his brother Dean is. You've heard in detail about the threats and the violence, the dark desires, and the Mark of Cain. He is reckless, and Sam hesitated to call him nice, but said he was going to be fairly respectful and was a very good hunter.

"Are you sure?" Sam keeps asking as Carlos ushers the pair of them inside from the cold. "It'd be nice to just relax, and we don't have many friends who we could trust about this, but if you're not comfortable...." He leaves it there.

Sam's brother is a little shorter than he is, and even more traditionally handsome, but the way he looks at Sam, the way he puts his hand on Sam's shoulder when he introduces him, it smacks of entitlement and a misunderstanding of boundaries. You can see that from one practiced motion. You know men like him. You think you understand him, even though he's hard to read.

You glance at Sam again, though, and his eyes are hopeful, sweet, alive in a way you never expected you'd see them. 

Something about Sam has you leaving them in the living room with complete trust now, even has you waving off his concern about Carlos stepping out to help cover someone's shift at the restaurant in a few minutes.

You put a hand on his shoulder as he sits on the couch, worrying. "Sam." You try to express the confidence in him that you feel. "We'll be okay."

As you prepare the  _escudella_ you hear them muttering with each other about why they're there over the sound of the Christmas music playing softly. 

"So we come so I can freak out in a living room rather than a motel? Nice, Sam." He sounds closed off, a little cold.

"We came to take a break," Sam speaks quietly to his brother. He's so soft, kinder than at any point during his first visit. He'd been so impatient then, so caught up in grief and determination, that he's a new person. It's as if having his brother around is enough for him to remain content despite anything else.

"And Christmas. Ha! Real nice," Dean goes on. "I'm assuming this is just for my benefit. You  _hate_ Christmas. It's right up there with November 2nd for you." 

"That's cold," Sam points out. "Look. I hated our Christmases growing up. I don't see the point in celebrations. My only real Christmas was the one we spent together before you went to Hell."

"This isn't even  _our_ Christmas," Dean complains. "It's someone else's. And it's foreign."

" _Bon Nadal_ ," Sam says gently. 

"Bone...what?" He sounds tired. Weary.

"You're gonna like it," Sam says. "These are good, pretty much unflappable people. The three of us will take you down if we need to, and no one's going to be fighting with you or putting either of us in danger."

"Whatever," Dean sighs. 

"Be open to it. Be open to some new traditions and a little taste of another culture, okay? There's a lot to like."

Dean's back to being Mr. Tough by the time you're all eating, and especially by the time Carlos gets back, but you're very grateful to Sam for sticking up for even your traditions. He seems to be a very good brother.

Dean leaves his doubts behind again soon enough, acting too cool for everything, like it's a joke, and it's irritating, punch-a-man-in-the-face irritating. You don't need his commentary on the idea of one meatball to share, or his laughter at the idea of all going to mass together wearing nice clothing. To his credit, he stops laughing when he realizes you're all serious, but at that point he really looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

You're grateful he can admit doubt and fear again when he does. "I can't," he says. His eyes are wide and green. He swallows, looks for Sam, then keeps his eyes on him. "That's too many people.  _God-fearing_ , celebratory people who care about a...manger baby. I can't," he says, looking as tired as he sounds, and he sounds bone-weary. 

Sam's hand is on Dean's shoulder. He grips Dean slightly there, tells him, "We're not going to _let_ you freak out. If it gets crowded, or tense, or even too uncomfortable, we're all going to take care of you. As a team. They took care of me before, when you weren't around. You'll have them, and you'll have me too. I _cured_ you. I'll do _whatever_ it takes to make sure you can deal. Okay?"

There's a certain force about Sam. His philosophy, his inspiration. You can tell this is the real Sam, the one he should have been with you and Carlos but was too lost to be. He's strong like someone who doesn't even consider what he does strength it comes so naturally, and gentle at the same time, like the sort of man who would be able to broach any subject as respectfully as possible. As Jesus referred to himself, Sam is gentle and humble in heart. He's a man who acts out of his character rather than his feelings most of the time. You're almost sort of grateful he has few people to spend Christmas with, if it means you're getting to show him your traditions and he's getting to enjoy it.

Dean looks at all of you for a long time. He studies faces, considers skills. He opens his mouth to talk, but can't, lets his point go, nods. It's a helpless nod. He aims it at Carlos, then at you, even more helplessly. "Okay."

He puts on his suit. He sits through Midnight Mass seeming nervous and guilty and looking around like he's casing the sanctuary, but he's also calmer than you would have expected, having heard his concerns. You realize as you all get up to leave that Sam's hand is resting over the spot near Dean's elbow where the mark is, like a physical reminder you'll help him keep it under control to the best of your ability.

He shifts again when you get home and the talk about God and Jesus isn't so overwhelming to him. He pulls a lot of jokes as you all start to talk about your lives, even adding a little commentary you don't approve of to everyone else's, but you offer him more _turrón_ and let him express himself, and he becomes a little less ornery bit by bit. There aren't any genuine smiles, though, just false ones like he's made of _carton-pierre_.

It's the  _pessebre_ that gets the first, hearty laugh out of him. The stable and Jesus and Mary and Joseph are there, as well as figures he expects to see, such as shepherds and the wise men, but so are a few other characters such as a weaver, and, of course,  _el caganer_. 

He laughs so hard as you explain why there's someone shitting in the nativity scene that Sam gets embarrassed and starts apologizing. You wave off the apology, smiling. You love getting to talk about the figure, especially when its taken as amusing and not as offensive. Most people who take a good, long look don't know what it's doing there, not in the US, so explaining it is part of putting it out.

"It's about humanizing the scene, in a way," you explain. "It wasn't clean and nice that night; it was a stable. And Jesus did not live a life free from human needs. He came to earth to experience everything we do."

"The presence of a  _el caganer_ meant a good harvest," Carlos adds. "It's an important tradition. They've tried to keep us from it at times."

Dean's teary-eyed laughter has Sam laughing soon too. And when they finally start to calm, they both listen with interest to stories of other Christmas traditions from Barcelona, starting with _el ti ó._

Dean goes to sleep in the guest room well fed and with bright eyes. It's what they call a Christmas miracle.

Sam sits for a while in his suit, sipping wine, asking questions about Barcelona at Christmas time, about traditions, even a few about demon hunting. He's very interested and very respectful. 

You have a question of your own. "Why did you say you get connected to Hell a lot?"

"What?" he seems jarred out of his easy spirits.

"The last time you were here?" you remind.

Like water dousing out a fire, he loses his spark and shine. It's so sudden you consider telling him never mind, but he's looking into the wine in his glass contemplatively. "I'm not clean, Montserrat," he says. You wait for him to go on. "A demon fed his blood to me when I was six months old. That was just the beginning. The blood gave me...powers."

"Powers?"

"Psychic powers. Legit. Nightmares that came true." He looks up. "I was pitted against other kids with powers, and the winner was supposed to be the leader of a demon army. I was killed, though. Dean made a demon deal to bring me back, and when he was in Hell, I tapped into the powers again to try and get him back, or at least to try and get revenge. I'm not proud of it, except for the fact I was able to save vessels just using my mind."

"What?" you rush out.

"I could send demons back to Hell or even kill them. Dean was so angry. He dealt with it when that was all I'd told him, but I was drinking demon blood to fuel up. _That_ I hadn't told him."

"How did that go?" you ask gently. He blinks, really sees you for a moment. You're not here to judge what he did. You're here right now to listen.

"It felt...good. I took it from my girlfriend, at first. She was...a demon," he admits. "She'd stuck with me when Dean died, showed me my powers. She said I could trust her, but, you know demons. That's what they say. Dean found out about the blood, forced me to detox, and then when I got out we got into a fight. I still don't know how I got out," he admits. "Met up with my girlfriend, tried to kill this one demon to get revenge for Dean and save the world from the Apocalypse, but ended up setting the Devil free."

You stare.

"Yeah, that Devil," he sighs. "I'm his angelic vessel. It's like everywhere I turn, Hell's trying to pull me in. I know, I know; it's true of everyone. But it's kind of...tangible for me. Even just a few years ago, I was having Hell flashbacks and hallucinations of Lucifer. I didn't want this stuff, not really."

"You're not Dean," you say.

He slowly narrows his eyes, offended.

"You didn't choose anything lightly. You aren't violent. You try to use stuff for good. I brought it up because I can't see why you'd be connected to Hell, when you're yourself, when you're not upset and grieving. That's all."

"I was grieving the last time I got in too far. And then I was fighting with Dean."

"Good." 

He eyes you. "Good?"

"Don't let him control you." 

His expression is softly sheepish again. "I don't anymore. Or, I try not to. It's better for both of us, when he doesn't try to. I'm not always this...on top of my game, as far as 'being myself'. I sometimes am, though."

"Until I learn differently, this is my assessment," you say. "You know that verse where Jesus says he is gentle and humble in heart? That is what I see in you, completely."

He stares into his wine and doesn't know how to respond. You reach over to turn the music's volume up just a little bit. 

One larger-than-life man sleeps for what will hopefully be a restful sleep. The other larger-than-life man sips wine across from you on the couch, thinking about his life. Neither is made of  _carton-pierre_ _._ Neither is empty.

 _Bon Nadal_ , you think. You push the _turrón_  toward Sam a little more.


End file.
